Sinister
by dashinginconverse
Summary: Beneath Dean Ambrose's carefully crafted mask of normalcy lies a monster, and no one is aware of this particular fact - except his victims. Various pairings and characters involved, based loosely on the Dexter series.
1. By the Light of the Moon

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own anything. _

_**Summary: Beneath Dean Ambrose's carefully crafted mask of normalcy lies a monster, and no one is aware of this particular fact - except his victims. Various pairings and characters involved, based loosely on the Dexter series.**_

_After a long absence, here's something new! So, this has been in my head for the longest time, and I've just gotten the inspiration to start this. And the time. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I just hope I can do this concept justice and everything. There will be some things taken from Dexter in this fic, of course, but it won't follow it to a T - because that would be a travesty, considering how the show ended, lol. But this first chapter probably shows a lot of similarities. I'm so excited for this fic! I have so many ideas. Anyway! Please enjoy! _

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**Sinister**  
**Chapter One: By the Light of the Moon**

* * *

His eyes were open, but he could not see.

The air around him felt stagnant, as if he were in an enclosed space with no ventilation. Breathing was difficult; each time he inhaled, it was like he was drawing sawdust into his lungs. He coughed, repeatedly, but that only worsened his condition. Wriggling slightly, he tried to assess just where he was. What had happened? He hadn't the faintest clue. All he could focus on was the pounding of his heart in his chest, the feel of the pulse in his wrists pounding against...wood? Were his hands bound to something? He tested this, finding that his wrists were, indeed, tied to the arms of what he guessed was a chair. His ankles, also tied to the legs of the chair. His back bound to the chair's back.

_I'm fucked, _was the one thing that raced through his mind.

He could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. But no, he would not go down crying. He would be brave, he would be -

Creaking footsteps sounded throughout the space.

His back became rigid against the chair, every tendon in his body pulled tight and ready to snap at a moment's notice.

Chuckling.

"That's what I really dislike about this place." The drawling voice was almost flippant, as if discussing the weather. "I can't surprise anyone. Damn floorboards."

He gulped heavily, almost unable to clear his throat. His heart was in his ears.

"But I'm used to it. This place is practically home."

He tried to form a response to this mysterious man, this man who could very well kill him in any way, shape, or form at this moment, but there was more of that itchy fabric covering his mouth. From the sound of his voice, the man was confident that he wouldn't get caught. Confident that whatever he was about to do would go unnoticed by the general populace.

_Maybe monsters can truly sense one another..._

The man's touch against his cheek caused pinpricks of anxiety to form along his spine, inching downward; he feared he would relieve himself in front of his captor and shame himself further. However, the man's intention was to simply remove the gag that had been placed in his mouth.

He coughed and hacked, spitting out the threads that had been caught on his tongue.

"You're not going to kill me," he spewed, "you're covering my eyes."

A snicker. "Someone has watched a little too much crime television."

And, with that, the blindfold was ripped from his head, exposing him to the dingy light around him. Despite how dimly lit the place was, it still stung his eyes after so much darkness.

His surroundings were that of squalor. If he could call it that. It was probably a basement or something equally hidden from prying eyes. He was strapped to a chair, like he figured, and tightly, too. He tried to break free from the ropes that were binding him, but to no avail.

Wheeling, his eyes found the eyes of his captor, and a shudder rippled through him.

"Hello, friend."

His breathing was quick, in and out and in and out through clenched teeth. He had no idea what was causing this reaction - was it the fact that he felt he was about to be killed? That would certainly be enough to get any man's blood pumping desperately through his veins. But no. No, no. It was the man's eyes. Icy blue and just as cold, sparking with life as if they had never seen light before.

"I suppose you know why you're here."

It took him a moment to answer the man, but he finally found his voice, "N-No...I have done nothing...I'm innocent...you..."

The man reached for him, ruffling his hair rather violently, as if chastising a child. "You are as ignorant as you are brutal, Mr. Parker."

_He knows my name...he knows my name...how..._

"Lane Parker." Another cold chuckle. "Can I call you Laney? I rather like that." Without waiting for a response, the man continued. "Thirty-seven years of age. Lawyer. Married with two kids, a dog, and a lovely girlfriend on the side."

Lane started to stir in his chair, uncomfortable, sweat beading on his brow and beginning to run into his eyes.

"I wonder if you would have that nice wife and mistress if they knew what you did to your other conquests?"

Almost with a flourish, the man swept to the side, and immediately crime scene photos of three women were displayed in front of him - all red heads covered in red, lying in broken positions on the floor - one in the bathroom next to the shower, the curtain covering her modesty; one lying along the edge of a pond, the water near her head rusty-tinged; and another in an alleyway with her throat smiling crimson.

He could not comprehend how this happened. Could not even fathom how this...this _person_ had discovered this. He had been so careful, so meticulous. Had not been seen in public with any of them...

Lane looked up, his eyes widening at the sideways smirk the man gave him with just a glimpse of teeth. "Please...please...I'm innocent. I swear I knew nothing of this! How...this is just a grave mistake! I swear it is..."

"One of your fellow lawyers? Trying to smear your name in the dirt?" The man had his back to him at this point, and was fiddling with something...something that Lane couldn't see. He chuckled. "You are rather easy to predict, Laney boy."

"Please...I'm innocent! I've done nothing wrong! You! You can remain innocent if you let me go! I won't tell anyone of this, I swear it!"

The man had turned around, his grin widening. "Oh, I haven't been innocent in a long time," he drawled, approaching him slowly. "And neither have you."

He didn't even see the knife until it had slid effortlessly under his sternum.

"Justice."

* * *

Dean Ambrose inhaled deeply as he stepped out into the cool night air, brandishing several heavy duty trash bags that now concealed something so macabre that no garbage man in their right mind would want to deal with them.

He hurled the trash bags onto the deck of his small boat, hearing the loud _thunks_ as they landed.

And he smirked.

He probably spent a little too much time with that one, of course, but it wasn't in vain. He felt lighter than he had in ages, the urge curbed, packed down deep away in his chest, no longer pestering him with ideas. Ideas that he couldn't ignore until _this_ resulted.

As he climbed into his small boat, ready to dispose of his precious cargo and head back to the mainland, he couldn't help but smile as the bright, bright moon shone down on him.

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_**End Chapter One. **_


	2. The Greater Good

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own anything._

_Thanks so much for the feedback for the first chapter! All of the kind words mean so much. I honestly did not expect this to get the reviews it did, and for that I am so very grateful. This project is just going to be so fun and I'm already so inspired to write for it, even though it has taken a while to get the second chapter out. I really hope that y'all keep on reading and that y'all enjoy where I take this fic. It's certainly going to be a ride!_

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**Sinister**  
**Chapter Two: The Greater Good**

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As the clock ticked near him, Dean rolled his neck side to side, eliciting a satisfying _pop_ for his efforts.

The lecture today was particularly boring. Usually, he was all for anything this college could offer - and Anatomy and Physiology was probably his favorite class this semester - and yet today it was as if he had been slumbering for the longest time and had just now awakened for this one, tedious class. He wasn't sure if it was the teacher's droning voice or the fact that they were covering the gastrointestinal system - his least favorite body system on paper, but it was rather satisfying actually seeing some horrid criminal's entrails spilling onto the floor in front of him, though it was messy and required hours more clean up...

Dean snapped back to reality - and quickly supressed the growing smirk on his face - when the teacher cleared his throat and continued talking about chronic conditions of the intestine. Crohn's Disease, Ulcerative Colitis, et cetera. Despite everything, he had done the reading the night before, so really coming to class was just to reinforce what he'd already learned.

After a while, the teacher reminded them to be aware of the test they had later that week. Dean rapped his knuckles on the desk a few times in succession before rising and slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"You were starting to drool there, Dean."

Dean turned calmly in the direction of the voice that had grabbed his attention. He was met with the playful gaze of fellow student, Kaitlyn Bonin. Her teeth were bared in a bright grin, the dull lighting of the classroom not dulling her beauty at all.

"I can only follow so much," he replied, a smile breaking across his own face.

"Yeah, but you'll still ace the next test with no problem at all," Kaitlyn said, rising from her seat and slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She ran a hand over her oddly colored light-and-dark hair before looking down at him. "Want to go grab some coffee? I'm about to pull an all-nighter."

Dean pondered his options before ultimately relenting. Normally, he would be already researching his next project, but right now he felt blissfully normal. No raging urge taking over his every thought. It was odd, feeling so serene after slicing someone to ribbons, but hey, he never said he wasn't odd. And _odd _might be an understatement.

The coffee shop on campus was packed, so the two of them trekked to the _Starbucks _across the street, Kaitlyn singing along with some song that was playing in her headphones as they walked, Dean giving her a friendly shove on the shoulder as she held out a pretend microphone for him to join in.

"So serious."

Dean bared his teeth at her in a grin that he felt described his mood. (Almost) free from the impulse, free with someone he could (almost) be himself in front of. It was all enough to make him (almost) happy.

The two of them walked into the coffee shop and were immediately greeted with the heavy smell of the shop's signature brew. Kaitlyn looked around the place first, spotted someone who immediately put a smile on her face, and then tromped over to the counter. Dean followed her, but not before eyeing just who caused her to have an extra spring in her step - no matter how much she wanted to deny it.

He shoved her on the shoulder. "So did you invite Seth to this little gathering or have you been stalking him again?"

Kaitlyn looked over at him, in the process of ordering her usual caramel mocha with two shots of espresso. Her face was almost comical in its expressiveness. "What?"

"You heard me," he replied, giving her what he thought was a jovial smile. Really, he didn't know the meaning of jovial. Hadn't known that feeling for a very long time.

Dean found himself treated to the sight of blood rushing to Kaitlyn's cheeks. She wasn't an easy person to make blush, but when it happened, it was very much worth it. However, just knowing the blood flow to her cheeks had increased made Dean wonder other things, things that he had no business wondering. She wasn't a part of his _agenda_. She would never be. She was _Kaitlyn_. She had known him since they were children and she had a heart of gold. She didn't fit his _code_.

"I'm pretending I didn't," she replied, taking her coffee from the barista and moving over to the aforementioned man's table. Her voice was a relief from the sudden rampaging thoughts that had flown through his mind.

Dean smirked and watched her walk away before placing his own order. Simple black coffee. Cliche, he figured, but only he would understand that.

When Dean turned around to find the table at which Kaitlyn sat, he saw that they were joined by not only Seth Rollins, but another person Dean had known all his life - the imposing presence of Roman Reigns.

"Well, well," Dean said as he slinked into the seat next to Kaitlyn but opposite Roman and Seth. "The gang's all here."

Roman gave Dean a dry look before gulping down his own coffee.

"You off duty today?" Dean asked.

Roman placed his coffee down on the table in front of him and looked up. The long hair that most girls would kill for was pulled back into a low bun instead of hanging free around his face like it did on most days. "Nah, I'm on break. Too busy to really have a day off today."

"What's going on?" Seth asked, leaning forward. Dean had already moved to the edge of his seat, trying to deny his curiosity but unable to.

Roman shook his head, running a hand over his already smooth ponytail. The dress shirt was stretched taut over his chest, rolled up halfway on his forearms, and was a deep blue in color. He looked every bit the professional, especially with the detective badge around his neck. After high school, Roman went straight to the police academy, blazing through any tests that were thrown his way. Once he found a spot on the city's police force, he was quickly up-jumped to a detective in the homicide department, the youngest to wear such a title in the force's history. Dean was proud of him, of course, but Roman was very astute despite being a "beef head" - Seth's words, not his own - so, whenever he was around, Dean often had to be careful his mask did not slip and reveal the monster beneath.

"Just...we're short-staffed. People are getting killed left and right - you know how much crime this city has. We're so busy that one of the lab workers misplaced evidence that lead to a mistrial. Bastard killed his wife and _walked_."

It was obvious that the very notion of someone committing a crime and getting away with it rankled Roman's very being. He could do nothing about it except try to obtain more evidence against said person and hope and pray that it went through and was acceptable as evidence in a re-trial.

_But those rules don't apply to me, _Dean thought, the urge once more stirring within him.

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_**End Chapter Two.**_


	3. In the Quiet Moments

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own anything._

_Wow, thanks so much for the responses for the last chapter! I really appreciate everyone who has reviewed/favorited/followed this fic so far. It's so nice to have this little idea of mine have people who enjoy it. I know I really enjoy writing this (and I wonder what that says about me, lol) so I'm glad that people enjoy reading it. Anyway! Here's the third chapter. Thanks so much for reading!_

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**Sinister**  
**Chapter Three: In the Quiet Moments**

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The darkness was something that Dean enjoyed. It enabled him to hide away the physical person he was and melt into the creature of the night that really, truly enjoyed this act. He was able to fade away from the reality of every day life and take a backseat as his other self took over.

The house wasn't hard to find at all, not once Dean had been granted the name of the person he was looking for. Roman had talked extensively after their little coffee break the other day and he had eaten it all up - in a completely non-obvious way, of course, only asking the faintest of questions to spur Roman into answering with more information than was necessary. It was odd; usually Roman was like a vault, but he must have been unusually pissed to have disclosed so much information.

Not that Dean was complaining, of course.

He had thought the darkness within him was sated by the most recent of his kills, but as soon as the topic of a killer going free was brought up, his blood ran hot in his veins, his heart beat a bit faster, something akin to _feeling _crept into his subconscious.

And he was relishing every moment of it.

This man, Matthew McLaurin, was successful. Wealthy. White collar. An accountant. Formerly married to Elizabeth McLaurin, a pretty little brunette who ended up drowned in a nearby ocean; the infant found in her womb was what made this case all the more tragic. A boating accident? Possibly. Matthew was known for his expensive yaught and even more expensive lifestyle, mooching off of his wife's money, which she made working as a physician in a nearby pediatric hospital.

The coroner observed old fractures, consistent with signs of abuse, as well as the cracked skull of someone killed by something blunt - in the end, a pipe was deemed cause of death instead of the ocean. No water in the lungs, clear-cut sign, in the end.

As always, the police looked at the spouse first - if that didn't say anything about marriage as a whole, Dean didn't know what did - and found out about his long-time affair with his co-worker, Stacie.

He looked to be with her now, from what Dean could tell, peeking in through the lowest window of his newest target's house in the more upscale part of town. He certainly had a lot of motive - the life insurance Elizabeth McLaurin had was staggering, as well as the remnants of their joint savings account.

Two nude bodies were tangled together in a mess of arms and legs. He could hear them moaning even from where he stood. Dean took a moment to roll his eyes. How typical. Really, it was the most typical story in any book. Man has wife, man has mistress, mistress does kinkier things in bed than wife, man kills wife. Or, the mistress kills wife. Either way, the outcome was the same.

And, oh, did Dean _hate_ the typical.

He hated scum like this guy, as well. Or, he assumed what he felt was hate. It was really just blunted, like all "emotions" he experienced.

Dean pondered bursting in on the two and just hacking them to pieces where they stood. But, no, he could not do that. He needed hard evidence that linked them to the murder. The yaught had been searched, but had the police looked everywhere? Maybe he should talk to the lab worker who had seen the evidence. But that would alert Roman, and then he would certainly have some explaining to do - or, at least, some very clever lying.

Harsh blue eyes peered through the curtain; Dean was treated to a glimpse of tanned thigh, wrapped around a man's waist. Faint moans could be heard from inside. Dean fought the urge to wrinkle his nose, but then did it anyway.

For two reasons, he found himself antsy.

First, man's pattern had been changed. On any normal Tuesday night for McLaurin, he would be playing poker with the buffoons he called friends. But apparently this night was different. Clearly, it was, seeing as he was very present in his house with a _very_ present second party. So that meant he would have to find his _proof_ at a later date.

Second, he really just wanted to _end _this scum.

And that was a silly reason, but it was one that set his teeth on edge, one that made him unable to think of anything else but the dark, dark need that settled inside him the moment Roman told him the story, the moment he was let on to the skeeviness of this _creature_ named Matthew McLaurin.

Of course, Dean himself was a creature of a whole different nature. He wasn't denying it, no, not at all, but McLaurin was abusive. Cheater. Murderer.

But then there was that little voice in the back of his head, the one who whispered to him each and every time Dean reached for the syringe of tranquilizer he had brought with him. He had enough to knock out the both of them for about an hour. Enough to transport them to his secluded cabin, enough time to get everything set up.

_Proof, _it whispered. _Proof._

"Fuck," Dean muttered to himself before slinking away from the window. Defeated by his own subconscious. By his own _morals_. "_Fuck_," he repeated, a hiss of a whisper, before skulking off into the night.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Dean's hands were shaking while he tried to unlock to door to his small apartment on the fourth story of the second-cheapest place in town. Because Dean wouldn't even wish the cheapest complex on his worst enemy.

Okay, that was a lie.

After a few tries, Dean wrenched the door open and gave an almost relieved sigh at completing the mundane task. His mind was still full of frenzied thoughts; he felt as if he was going nowhere and everywhere all at once, when really he was at a stand-still.

He couldn't kill the guy if he didn't have proof.

But he _wanted_... Oh, how he _wanted_...

Dean started to pace, fingers flexing and extending at his sides as he did so. He had worked so hard throughout the years to perfect his icy exterior, to perfect his mask, and yet _this reaction still happened._

Back and forth and back and forth, he paced. His heart beat hollowly in his chest, pumping blood through his system almost as if in slow motion. Red started to seep into his line of sight, starting along the edges of his eyes and moving into until everything he saw was a brilliant crimson in color.

Chest heaving, fists now clenched and shaking, lip curling, a curse bubbling in his throat...

"You should probably sit down, Dean."

And, at the sound of that voice, he stopped. Everything stopped.

Whirling toward the voice, Dean snarled. Despite his tone, as soon as he glanced at her, the red faded from his vision, leaving everything in brilliant technicolor once more. "I thought you weren't coming around anymore."

AJ Lee just gave him a cheeky smile, her legs dangling off the arm of his couch, tiny form draped along the plush furniture. She reached her arms above her head and stretched, arching her back, an enticing little picture in his muddled little world.

"You know I can't do that," she drawled in a friendly manner.

"You can," Dean bit. "And you should."

"Mmm," she hummed, closing her eyes. "But I've helped. You've calmed down so much already."

Dean raked a hand through his messy hair. "Shut up."

He leaned against the wall before sliding down to the floor, exhaling deeply as he did so. But, for the life of him, he couldn't stop thinking about the man he wanted to kill, the blood coating his hands, the sweet sound of the knife as it cut through bone and muscle and tendon and knowing that another scumbag couldn't hurt anyone ever again, knowing somewhere in his deep, twisted soul he was doing something right for once in his life.

Red, again. _Red, red, red_. Shaking hands, shaking breaths, shaking morals...

"Talk to me," he grunted, squeezing his eyes shut.

And so she did, about everything and nothing and gradually - _gradually _\- the madness subsided, after which he breathed a soft and gruff, "Thank you."

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_**End Chapter Three.**_


End file.
